


Breaking Point

by englandwouldfalljohn



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: All smut, Anal Fingering, Bit of a sweat kink, Blow Jobs, John doesn't see it coming, Johnlock - Freeform, Johnlock Roulette, M/M, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Rough Kissing, Shameless Smut, Sherlock is not shy, Sweat, post shower sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-09
Updated: 2017-09-09
Packaged: 2018-12-25 18:01:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,039
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12041250
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/englandwouldfalljohn/pseuds/englandwouldfalljohn
Summary: John Watson just wants to take a shower. When he finally convinces Sherlock to come out of the bathroom, he ends up hot and wet... but not in the way he anticipated. (Porn for the sake of porn)





	Breaking Point

**Author's Note:**

> Extreme thanks to EchoSilverWolf for the clever title ;)

"Sherlock!" John screamed, banging again on the loo door.

The shower was going full blast, but he knew that posh git could still hear him.

"Sherlock! I don't give a shit if you're doing an experiment or having a wank, get out of the bathroom!"

After a long moment during which he could swear he heard his flatmate deciding whether not to claim selective deafness, he heard the squeak of the tap turning, and the noise of the rushing water stopped. With the rustle of curtains and a towel, the door flung open on a steaming hot cubicle - the last thing John needed on an already balmy August morning.

Sherlock cast his usual look of bored appraisal up and down the length of his blogger: green vest, gray track bottoms, and a new pair of trainers. He'd been so busy with his most recent experiment on Scottish mold spores that he'd entirely forgotten that John had taken up running again.

"John, you really needn't..." his mouth stopped moving mid-sentence as a single drop of sweat slid languidly from John's temple down to his jaw. It threatened to fall gracelessly onto his shoulder for a moment before catching in two-day-old stubble and being dragged almost against its will down the length of his neck, finally disappearing beneath the perspiration-darkened cotton below the break in his collar-bone.

In one unconscious movement, Sherlock released his breath and his towel, taking only a few predatory strides to corner John between the kitchen table and a dark baritone growl. Disheveled silver hair fell across a tan forehead, war-hardened eyes blown wide with a rare expression of surprise.

And lust. John felt it, and it would be absurd to pretend the world's only consulting detective didn't see it... though judging by the flushed tip of the fully erect cock on proud display between them, it was a more than welcome response.

Pale pink lips parted to reveal a brief flash of the teeth now fiercely devouring the stunned doctor's mouth, scraping the length of his carotid artery, lapping sweat from the slightly toned abdomen being bared unceremoniously to the silent flat as Sherlock rucked up the thin jersey with one hand while shoving down everything below John's waist with the other.

A strangled cry escaped the man pressed as hard against the edge of the table by his own desire as by the wiry strength of his flatmate, who licked his own lips with a hum of satisfaction by way of preamble before engulfing the length of his blogger's half-hard cock in the eager warmth of his throat.

John's short nails scrabbled for purchase on still shower-slick skin as blood surged away from his hands, his brain, encouraged by the alternating suction around his shaft and the counter-clockwise swirling of that silver tongue over the head.  
  
Just as he was being lulled by the hypnotic rhythm of that devilishly skilled mouth, a long, slender digit breached his thoughts and his body. Without waiting for an invitation - or even a verbal response - Sherlock curled his finger ever so slightly, smirking as John's body arched toward him, momentarily impaling his throat with that beautifully satisfying girth, no less desirable for its predictability.

A few slow thrusts, matched by a long upward drag of his lips, drew a grateful exhale from the man who, only minutes ago, would have never seen this coming - not least because until that moment, he had still maintained, even to himself, that he was straight.  
  
The relief was short-lived, however, as the detective plunged without warning back down the length of John's cock, taking him to the hilt before setting a masochistic pace, a repetitive hum vibrating through the blogger's entire body.  He was on the verge of crying out for the whole of London to hear when Sherlock's oral pyrotechnics were suddenly accompanied by what he was faintly aware must be morse code being transcribed against a previously unstimulated bundle of nerves.

As the detective dominated him inside and out, he lost the ability to vocalize even the nearly barbaric screams of pleasure echoing in his own head.

John Watson felt the control slipping, felt himself fall over the edge, felt his climax, his resolve, his heterosexuality, coursing down his flatmate's gorgeous throat. One thrust, two... a release better than any he'd ever known... four, five... hands buried in raven curls as if to save himself from drowning... seven, eight... almost painfully riding out the last of his --

And Sherlock was climbing him, pinning him to the tabletop, knees across biceps, as one violin-calloused hand wrapped around his throbbing cock while the other slid impossibly between strong alabaster thighs and up, into a place John suddenly longed to explore.

Smaller hands gripped rocking hips, holding them steady through the few strokes it took to bring a flood of hot strings down across his face, onto his waiting tongue.

John licked his lips, swallowed, let the taste of his partner, his new life, linger a moment before speaking to the man maintaining his balance on one arm above him.

"Sherlock?  
  
"Mm?"  
  
"That... that word..."  
  
"What word?"  
  
"The one you were..."  
  
"Oh... yes?"

"What... was it?'

"Baise-moi."

 

"Um... Sherlock?"

Sherlock blinked. John stood before him, sweat soaking his clothes, annoyance written clearly on his face.  
  
"John?"  
  
"So you haven't lapsed into a coma, then?"  
  
Sherlock blinked again.  
  
"You've been standing in that towel staring at me for about five minutes now, then you blurt out some odd phrase in French? Just get out of the bloody way so I can shower, yeah?"

Sherlock moved hastily into the kitchen.  
  
"I... yeah. Yes. Sorry."  
  
"Right, ok. No harm done, I guess." John slid through the open door and locked it behind him before his stranger than usual flatmate could change his mind. He turned on the cold tap, pulled off his running gear, and reached for the curtain. He paused then, deciding to grab his phone and run a quick google translation…

As he reached for the warm tap, he smiled. Maybe he'd take a long shower himself. He heard a muffled groan from behind the door leading to the adjoining bedroom.

"A long shower," he said to himself, reaching for Sherlock’s door handle, "or maybe..."


End file.
